


The Places My Mind Runs Around (without you there to tie it down)

by addendum



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:59:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addendum/pseuds/addendum
Summary: John and Sherlock can't stand being apart for too long, and a cute Skype call ensues as a result.





	

Sherlock sat cross legged on John's chair, clad in his silk dressing gown despite it being late afternoon. Both of his hands were curled into fists, and his eyes were shut tight. His nails, or rather, nail beds, as he had bitten them raw, continued to dig persistently into the skin of his hand, perhaps in a sadistic search for blood. The urge to walk to the corner store and purchase a pack of cigarettes was astounding. The thought of it was gnawing at Sherlock, taking bites out of his sanity. 

If John were home, he would hold Sherlock's hand and let him ramble or groan or sit in complete silence and he'd kiss Sherlock's knuckles and they'd take deep breaths and Sherlock would feel better. John Watson was the only person in all of England who could help the world's most brilliant detective relax when he was having a fit. Sherlock fingered the dog tags around his neck. John's. Sherlock had gone into the doctor's old military things to get them because they were a definite source of comfort, and something to fidget with if he needed a distraction. 

Before he could release a guttural scream of frustration, Sherlock heard footsteps on the staircase, and his eyes snapped open, taking in the surrounding room. 

221b Baker Street was nothing if not Sherlock's safe space. The lingering smell of forensic experimentation and of John Watson was enough for Sherlock to gather the courage to inhale a deep breath of cold air, and attempt to calm himself down. He glanced swiftly around the flat and took in all it's details, gathering the same information from the room that he had many times before, but attempted this time to observe from an outsider's perspective, as though he wasn't already fully aware of all the data this particular living chamber had to offer. Dog hair on the sofa. A whiff of Chamomile tea in the hair. A violin balanced delicately on the coffee table. 

This exercise was pointless, really. Sherlock knew all of these things already. But, he supposed, it did do something to ease his ever overcrowded mind. Everything he could see from his place in the arm chair acted as a reminder of John Watson and, by extension, the good things in his life. Before Sherlock could spend any additional seconds scolding himself for that pitifully romantic sentiment, the person walking up the steps reached the entrance to 221b Baker Street. Sherlock allowed himself a fleeting moment of hope. Perhaps it was John, arriving home a little early. This hope was, of course, proven not to be founded in reality when Mrs   
Hudson entered the sitting room. 

"Oh really, Sherlock!" She exclaimed, plainly distressed. "You've been sitting there for hours now! Please let me make you something to eat," The older woman implored, not doing much to support the constant claims that she wasn't a housekeeper. 

Sherlock responded to her pleas with only a detached grunt, but Mrs Hudson had already made her way into the kitchen, presumably to prepare him lunch. It was lunch time, correct? Sherlock couldn't be sure. As melodramatic as it sounded, he had a tendency to separate himself from the rest of the world's concept of time, especially when John wasn't there to release him from the trappings of the ever working machine that was his mind with a gentle nudge or a soft kiss placed to his temple. Sometimes he would come up behind Sherlock while he worked and gently massage his shoulders, and maybe whisper a few words of encouragement in his ear. 

Sherlock often found himself becoming a prisoner of his own thoughts. It was sometimes as though his brain had concocted itself a perpetual motion mechanism, and it would run and run until someone turned it off, giving it a moment's rest. While this came in handy in Sherlock's line of work, it sometimes became exhausting. John was the only person who knew how to slow Sherlock's brain down before it veered off its tracks. And John was not home. 

Sherlock knew, of course, in his heart of hearts, that he was being a tad dramatic. It wasn't as though John was gone forever. It wasn't as though John was even gone for a very long time, actually.In fact, in the grand scheme of things, Sherlock supposed that John was really only gone for a very short time. Two days. And really, not even that. He had left early yesterday morning, and was expected to be home around 9:00 tonight. To Sherlock, it felt like a century. Especially considering the reason for John's absence. It was about Mary, of course. 

The divorce had been messy, extraordinarily so. There was yelling, and sabotage, and the hasty getting together of John and Sherlock. Times had been complicated, and frankly, continued to be. Everyone had expected the matter of child custody to be quite open and shut, seeing as how Mary was behind bars, but this was not the case. In fact, this battle was ongoing, and had been for almost a year. Mary had, in a rather cruel move, suggested to the court that John was not trustworthy when it came to the care and keeping of infants. She'd dramatized his past in the military and his professional partnership with Sherlock and had somehow spun these things into a fixation on gun violence and murder. An investigation had been launched, and unsurprisingly the court system of England was not at all pleased with the discovery that John's current significant other had a past riddled with drug abuse. These accusations, along with the generally slow nature of the law, had continually stalled John on his long and harrowing road to full custody. Mycroft was going take control the situation eventually, of course, but for now told Sherlock that there were urgent and confidential matters of utmost importance that he needed to attend to first. Sherlock rolled his eyes when Mycroft said this. He could not imagine putting any matter of government importance of the wants and needs of John Watson. 

On Friday John had gone to to Manchester for yet another battle in court, and was going to spend Saturday with a few of his mates. When he announced his imminent departure, Sherlock had thought he'd be able to cope with it. He'd been in the middle of a case at that time that he thought would hold him over until John came back. He'd made a sudden breakthrough soon after John left though, and had spent the night and next day missing him with a painful intensity. His paranoia when it came to Mary helped matters not at all. Despite almost even ounce of logical thought telling him this couldn't be true, Sherlock couldn't help but think John somewhere, deep down, wanted Mary back. She was beautiful and clever and quite the remarkable shot, after all. 

This thought came to Sherlock sometimes when he couldn't sleep, and he could feel his stomach drop. Sherlock could sometimes convince himself, when John was asleep, that he was dreaming about Mary. That Sherlock was nothing to him but a joke, a replacement. It made him sick to think about. Last night Sherlock had trouble sleeping. Without John's strong grip on his waist, he found himself becoming increasingly restless. A combination of nerves and a vague sense of discomfort.

Before Sherlock could linger any longer on the memory of last night's episode of insomnia, Mrs Hudson came back into room. 

"Sherlock, dear! I found the takeout from last night and reheated it. I hope thats okay with you," She said kindly, placing the dish in Sherlock's hands. "Please eat, Sherlock. I know you miss John, but really, you need to take care of yourself. I have to be going now, but tell John to say hello when he gets back!" She said before bustling out the door, not expecting or particularly desiring any expression of gratitude from Sherlock, who was a little sheepish that his missing John was so transparent. 

Sherlock sighed, left once again to himself. He put the container of takeout on the table in front of him, having no intention of eating it. He pouted, and wished that John was there to ask him what was wrong. He rose suddenly from the chair, suddenly feeling the need to stretch his legs. As he stood, however, Sherlock realized too late that everything from his calves down had fallen fast asleep and all six feet of his person toppled to the ground in a rather comical display. John surely would have enjoyed it. Sherlock stood up and sighed, grateful that there weren't any witnesses. He hated to embarrass himself like that, it made him feel as though his intellect was somehow cheapened. 

Before Sherlock could begin pacing incessantly around the room in a futile attempt to soothe his anxieties, his was distracted by a beeping sound coming from his nearby laptop. His eyes shot toward the device swiftly, his eyebrows furrowed almost as though the sound was being made just for the sake of irritating him. His expression quickly softened, however, when he saw that it was an incoming Skype call. John. Sherlock had considered calling him last night, but his mind had filled with taunting voices assuring him that John didn't want to talk to him, that he would be a nuisance. Instead he'd taken two sleeping pills and gone to bed early. 

Sherlock raced to the computer, picking it up and pressing the button that indicated his wish to answer the call, heedless of his usual worrying that he would appear too eager. The screen lit up suddenly with the smiling face of John Watson, and Sherlock felt the pressure in his chest disappear. 

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed fondly, his grin widening. 

"John!" Sherlock cried out just as enthusiastically, but suddenly overcome with shyness, his cheeks turning pink. John looked lovely, in a maroon sweater and Sherlock was smitten as ever. "I solved this case! Vincent's sister was the culprit. Obvious, really." 

It seems silly now, how worked up he had gotten himself. John looks the same, of course he does. He's only been gone for one night, after all. And Sherlock had been practically tearing his hair out missing him. How pathetic. 

"I've missed you too, love," John responded, chuckling kindly. "I'll be heading home soon, but I wanted to see how you were." Sherlock smiled. 

"I'm okay. There was a horrible soap opera on last night. Just dastardly. Completely over dramatic. I recorded it so we could watch it together when you get home," Sherlock said, smirking with amusement. John laughed, pleasing Sherlock immensely. He then remembered the reason for John's absence. 

"How were things with Mary?" Sherlock asked, suddenly concerned. John groaned and rolled his eyes, clearly frustrated. 

"As bloody annoying as ever. I'll elaborate later, though. I don't want to think about it just yet. I think I'll be getting home tonight around ten tonight, will you stay up for me? You had to spend last night alone, I want to make it up to you," John said with a smirk. Sherlock blushed at the implication but nodded his assent. 

"John, I love you!" Sherlock exclaimed, feeling an abrupt wave of neediness and affection. John chuckled again. 

"I love you too, Sherlock." 

"John? Can you hang up now? I-I mean, it's not that I don't want to talk to you. I do. But the sooner you do the sooner you can come home. I miss you," Sherlock said, repeating his previous sentiment. John looked touched. 

"Okay, Sherlock. I'll be there soon, and we can watch that program if you want."

Sherlock smiled. 

"Okay, John. Goodbye." 

"Bye, love," John said before hanging up. Sherlock continued smiling to himself. John had called to check up on Sherlock and he did not even want to talk about Mary. John would be home soon, and Sherlock could stop biting his nails and longing for cigarettes and grinding his teeth. The takeout left by Mrs Hudson suddenly seemed much more appetizing.


End file.
